


The Peoples of Arda

by Mirach



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Gen, One Shot Collection, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:02:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23109688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach
Summary: A collection of short character studies for several characters across the ages of Arda, mostly in 1st person narrative:- I Am Darkness - Ungoliant;- A Shadow Behind - Bëor;- A Letter to Amarië - Finrod;- Riddles in the Dark - Gollum;- The White Flower - Éowyn;- Herb-lore  - Merry Brandybuck;- Namárië, or the Hues of White - Galadriel
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	1. I Am Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am darkness. I am hunger. I am Ungoliant... A visual story.

I am darkness. I am hunger. Deep under the roots of the world, I spin my nets of un-light to cover the entire land. To take and devour so that nothing stays, just me, me and my darkness, filling everything! Maybe then my hunger will be satiated. For light I hunger, for that living, flickering, imperishable flame. I long for it, but it does not fill me. Only cold darkness, emptiness stays, and I hunger for more, more of the pure, untainted light!

He came. He promised. He seduced me with the vision of light to satiate my hunger. I seduced him, too... This is not my only form. It is most comfortable for spinning the darkness. But I can be beautiful to any eyes if I want, beautiful and dangerous. They like danger, the males. And I always get what I want. Then he promised. And I followed.

**un-light un-light un-light un-light un-light un-light**

**un-light** We passed through the land unnoticed **un-light**

 **un-light** Shadows in shadows. Thieves in the night **un-light**

 **un-light** Darkness veiled us, swallowing light **un-light**

**un-light un-light un-light un-light un-light un-light**

When we came, it was quiet. Nobody was there. Nobody saw us. They stood on a hill, shining like thousands of flames.

The Trees.

Their light was mixing.

The silver one

dark-green leaves

pale flowers of living light

a light drizzle of silver dew

diminishing

mixing

rising

a shower of warm rain

clusters of golden horns

fresh emerald leaves

The golden one

So much light! I must have it! I must devour it!

I drank their sap. I drank their light. I drank their life.

They were diminishing and I was rising. All the light of the world was mine! The emptiness inside me being filled. The light is mine! Ecstasy. Mine! Aaaaah...

The poison born of my thoughts spreads; like black veins under the unblemished skin of their bark. As if a heart would be beating in the middle of their trunk, bearing the poison further and further with every beat and spilling light into my waiting maw.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Thump..._

_thum-p thump –ump thum- -p._

Nothing is left. Dead branches like naked bones rustle their own dirge in the wind.

The hunger stirs again. More! I want more! More light! I want it! Because I am darkness. I am hunger...

I am

**d a r** **e s s**

**k n** **k n**

**d a r k** **e s s** **d a r** **n e s s**

**n e s s** **d a r k**

**HUNGER**

**n e s s** **d a r k**

**d a r k** **e s s** **d a r** **n e s s**

**k n** **k n**

**d a r** **e s s**

I am

 **Ungoliant**.


	2. A Shadow Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An account of Bëor’s journey to Beleriand and meeting with Finrod, based mostly on Athrabeth Finrod et Andreth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can be read as a companion piece to [No Regrets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16870342) written from Finrod's perspective

A shadow lies behind us. We do not speak of it. We do not mention it in our songs and stories. Maybe we believe that if we won’t talk about it, it will go away. Not talking about it does not make it less real, though. Fleeing from it does not make it less real, either. And yet we flee and do not talk of what lies behind, in a hope to keep the shadow there – in the past. In the past, not in the future. Let us not speak about it, so our children can be free of the memory, even if it does not make the reality of it disappear.

Let our children be free – it is enough that the memory is in our thoughts, that it haunts us at night and peeks at us from the darkness of our own mind when we least expect it. Let them not experience more than a distant echo of the darkness we came through, for I know that those echoes can never be silenced.

We were not meant to die when we awoke in this world, some say. Our race was meant to be immortal, free of the fear and darkness of death. We are being punished for something terrible we did, the elders say. What it was, nobody remembers. Maybe those who were before us tried to shield us from that memory like we try to shield our children. Terrible indeed it must have been, if an entire race is punished for it, denied the countless years of being, and given just a short glimpse of the wonders of this world instead. Just a short glimpse and then – nobody knows what comes then. That uncertainty is one of those fears that keep us sleepless at nights.

I do not know if they are true. I do not know if we were truly immortal at the beginning, if death is really a punishment for something unspeakably terrible we did in the past. Yet terrible things we did – that much I know. We worshipped a false god, a god that led us deeper and deeper into darkness. But that is behind us already – that shadow we left there, darker than starless midnight, darker than a bottomless pit of despair.

No, I do not want to talk of it – now, or ever. I gathered all those I could and that were willing to go, and we fled. To the West we wandered, not even with a hope to find light. That hope was the first thing we had to find. Many remained behind, without even a longing for hope. The shackles they are bound with are not of steel, but of fear and faith. The god they serve is not merciful, and fear is the weapon he uses against both his worshippers and enemies. We are tainted by it, carry it deep inside of our hearts. I do not know what to believe anymore. Maybe even that deepest of our fears, the fear of death, is his doing. Maybe death is not something we should fear… but I do not know for certain – and I am afraid to believe it.

We, who fled, did so with a vision of being free. We will never be truly free, though. That shadow will remain behind us and that fear with us forever. We heard rumours about the West, about powerful, majestic beings of light, mighty enough to stand against that shadow. That was what turned our steps towards the setting sun. Some who fled turned South or North, and wandered out of our tales and memory – we have never heard of them again.

And so here we are. A group of refugees without home, looking for something that might be just a phantom, afraid of our own shadow, but not daring to hope in light. Tired after a day’s walk, we lay down to sleep. The fire burns still, and there are stars in the sky tonight. The fresh beech leaves gently rustle in the wind and the scent in the air is sweet. Spring came into the woods, with its flowers and scents. May it be that no fear will keep me sleepless tonight…

Yes, my sleep is blessedly peaceful, like floating on a wide, slowly flowing river. I’m having such a wonderful dream… A creature of light sits amid us, and sings with a voice more beautiful than anything I have ever heard. I do not understand the words of the song, but the music touches my very soul. It caresses gently the parts of it that has known only pain. It soothes the unrest within it, and for a moment I have a glimpse of another country – green and fair, with light and music mingled in the very air that I breathe, and white shores washed by the ever-singing sea. I do not know where the vision comes from - maybe it is woven into the unearthly song that penetrates my dream. The music makes me weep with sadness and happiness mixed, with an overabundance of emotion that feels so deep and cleansing in the same time. But I do not sleep anymore, do I?

I open my eyes, afraid that the dream will dissolve in the reality of waking. It does not, though. He is there, sitting on a log by the fire, his hair shining like a molten gold in its dying light. But his face has its own inner light, pure and gentle and distant like the stars in the sky above. A simple harp is in his hands, one that someone of us left by the fire. But the sound that his fingers coax from its strings is just like him – light and distant, and breath-takingly beautiful. He is still singing the song about a green, far country. I understand it even without understanding the words. Tears continue rolling down my cheeks, but I do not care for them. I listen. Is he one of those beings from the West we heard rumours about? I do not know – and I do not care either, in the moment. I listen and I weep, and my heart opens and I feel that some of its darkness is lifted.

For the first time since the beginning of our journey, my heart is filled with hope.


	3. A Letter to Amarië

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before going with Beren to fulfill his oath, Finrod writes a letter to Amarie. She never got it. It remained locked in his study, and was destroyed with Nargothrond

_Nargothrond, FA 465_

My dearest Amarië!

I do not know if I still have the right to call you that - not "dearest", for you will ever remain the dearest one in this world to me, but "my"...

I still remember your face when we parted. That memory will be forever carved deeply into my mind. The pain in your eyes haunted me across the cruel ice of Helcaraxë, freezing my heart more than the wailing wind.

You did not weep. You knew I wouldn't be able to look at your tears. You knew I had to leave, and didn't want to make it harder to me. But the unshed tears fell like heavy stones into my soul.

You let me go.

I had to.

The new lands called to me with a voice of freedom and adventure. I could not stay behind. Both restlessness and responsibility to my people drew me forwards, into exile.

I don't regret my decision. It made me who I am now. Through hardship, I found purpose. I knew joy and pain, the thrill of battle, the headiness of victory and bitterness of defeat. I knew also a bitter victory, grief, and friendship stronger than darkness. The only thing I did not know in Middle-earth was love...

For all the long years, my heart belonged only to you. When the sky above Helcaraxë cleared after a cruel storm, and the first stars appeared in the frosty heavens, they reminded me of your eyes. When I finished my work in the caves of Nargothrond, I looked at them, and wondered if you would like the reliefs with trees, and if the halls would not seem too narrow to you.

You are in my thoughts tonight.

Tomorrow, I will leave to fulfil my oath. I will not return, I know it in my heart. But even if I die in darkness, the memory of you will be my light. Yes, I am afraid. I would lie if I said I'm not. I feel the darkness and pain ahead of me. For the word I have given, and for the friendship, I will go. And beyond the darkness and silence of Mandos, I have hope to meet you again.

Maybe you will not want me anymore. I would understand that. I left, leaving you alone. You waited for so long... When I return, I will not be the same. I went through ice and fire and death, I cannot be. Maybe you will look at me, and not like what you see. The decision is your, and I will accept it. But know that no matter how you decide, you will always be in my heart, for you shine more than stars and sun to me. Without you, even the Trees in their glory would seem dull to me. If you refuse me, I will keep the memory of you, and leave again, if you wish so.

But if you accept me, I will stay.

Forever yours,

Findaráto


	4. Riddles in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where and how did Gollum learn the riddles he gave to Bilbo?

In a hole in the ground there lived a family. The hole was built in the bank of a river, and it was wet at times, but the fire kept it warm and the hides at the entrance protected it from the wind. The grandmother of the family ruled it both strictly and kindly, and she especially liked the children, playing at her feet.

"I will teach you a new game," she said once.

The children looked at her in expectation, leaving the carved bones and sticks – that they quarreled for just a moment ago – laying on the ground. Eagerly they surrounded the grandmother.

"It is a game of riddles," she said. "I will give you a riddle, and you try to guess it. If you do not guess, I win. But if you guess, then you can ask a next riddle."

The children nodded their understanding – even the younger ones, who did not understand that much – and came closer to grandmother, to not miss a word of the riddle.

_"Voiceless it cries,  
Wingless flutters,  
Toothless bites,  
Mouthless mutters," _she said in a mysterious voice.

Sméagol's brow furrowed with hard thinking. It was the first riddle he has ever heard in his life.

* * *

It bit him on his poor, half-naked skin. It cried and muttered, and it seemed to him that he hears the voices of the grandmother and his family in it, driving him away, away from their hole, away from their life. Curse them, precious, and curse this stupid wind! Curse the sun, that cruel yellow light stinging in his eyes! If felt like a big eye was watching him, wanting to steal his Precious. He should hide before it, somewhere where it wouldn't be able to find him!

* * *

"Please, tell me a riddle..." was heard often in the following days. The kids were fascinated with the new game, but they ran out of riddles soon – one could only ask the same riddle once with every person, and even then it was possible that the person has already heard it from someone else.

"Please, tell me a riddle..."

"I must repair the boat, go bother someone else."

"Please, tell me a riddle..."

"I have no time. Don't you see I'm cutting the roots?"

"Please, tell me a riddle..."

"Again? Oh well... But do not ask me for the answer, as well. You must guess it yourself.

_What has roots as nobody sees,  
Is taller than trees,  
Up, up it goes,  
And yet never grows?"_

* * *

He looked up. Usually he kept his eyes to the ground, but now he did. It was right ahead, taller than the tallest trees he has ever seen at the river bank. It seemed to grow even though it didn't - the nearer he came, the bigger it was, filling more and more of his field of vision. The mountain, precious! Maybe the rocks could hide him from the yellow eye. Maybe he could somehow find its roots, precious!

* * *

"What happened here?" the grandmother asked strictly, and her face was terrifying to look upon to the ones guilty of the fight. Sméagol had a black eye, and Déagol a bloody nose.

"He did not want to give me my fish," said Sméagol tearfully.

"That's not true! We played a riddle game for it! I gave him a riddle, and he did not guess it."

"But it was a hard and stupid riddle!"

The grandmother frowned. "The rules of the game must be obeyed," she said uncompromisingly. "You will get no fish for breaking them, Sméagol."

Sméagol hung his head, muttering something regretfully unintelligible.

"Good," the grandmother seemed content. "Now what was the riddle?"

_"It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,  
Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt.  
It lies behind stars and under hills,  
And empty holes it fills.  
It comes first and follows after,  
Ends life, kills laughter."_

* * *

It were hard days and months in the mountains. The rocks were sharp and cold, and there was little water and food – just puddles and worms under the stones. He cursed the sun and rocks and wind and the grandmother. He cursed them all, complaining to his Precious. Then he found a little stream and followed hit, cooling his sore feet in the cold water. There he found it – a hole between the rocks. It led further and further to the roots of the mountain, and it was filled with darkness. The yellow eye would not find him there, precious, never again would it find him!

* * *

"Déagol, Déagol! I have a new riddle! It's my own! I made it myself!"

"Oh, really?" Déagol looked at him with interest. Guessing riddles was hard, but it was even harder to think of a new one. By now Déagol knew all the riddles that Sméagol did, and the other way round.

"Yes, listen," Sméagol smiled proudly.

_"Alive without breath,  
As cold as death;  
Never thirsty, ever drinking,  
All in mail never clinking."_

"Bah, that's easy. And it's not new, just worded differently."

Sméagol glared at him.

* * *

Fish! There was an underground lake, and there were fishes in it! Wonderul, juicy-sweet, still wriggling in his hands as he sank his teeth between the glistening scales and took the first bite of the raw, tender flesh. The first real meal he has had since leaving the river bank, it felt so great in his empty stomach that he almost forgot about the Precious for a moment. He decided he would stay here.

* * *

"Happy birthday, Sméagol! I've got a present or you."

"Oh, a present! I like presents! What is it, Déagol? Give it to me!"

"Yes, I will give it to you," Dégol smiled. "It is a riddle, one you have never heard before. I learned it from a trader from a family down the River."

"I'm sure I can guess it!" Sméagol grinned. "And then we can go fishing together."

"Yes, we can," Déagol agreed. "Here's the riddle:

_This thing all things devours:  
Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;  
Gnaws iron, bites steel;  
Grinds hard stones to meal;  
Slays king, ruins town,  
And beats high mountain down."_

* * *

Time passed around him. He did not count the days, the fishes, the orc-bones. Time stretched, time twisted, time chewed him but never swallowed. He had his Precious, his birthday present. The other memories faded – the River, the trees, the family living in the hole at the river bank, the children sitting at grandmother's feet, listening to her stories and riddles. There was just him and his Precious in the darkness. Gollum! Gollum!


	5. The White Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was born in the body of a maid, with the spirit and courage to match the heroes of old. She longed for great deeds, but there was always some excuse for the White Lady of Rohan to stay behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die? ___
> 
> _(J. R. R. Tolkien: The Return of the King, Book V, Chapter 8: The Houses of Healing)_   
> 

“My Lord!” She was like a ray of sun in the dim morning, shining from a place of shadows and whispers, her golden hair streaming after her as she rushed outside, where the riders mounted their steeds with grim expressions.

“My Lord, allow me to ride with you!” Her eyes pleaded, begged for release like those of a wild animal locked in a cage.

A tall rider turned to her. His cloak was green like the free plains of Rohan, like the freedom she longed for, but his eyes were troubled and weary. “Nay, my Lady. I cannot. Dark clouds are gathering above our land and my heart tells me that there will be no great deeds and glory in this battle. I cannot take the fairest thing that remains in the halls of my father away, when all the land needs her light in the dark times. You are brave and strong, my Lady, but your place is not in the field of battle. We ride to shadows and no song will be sung about our ride.”

With that, he turned from her and mounted his horse, and led his riders out of Edoras, to the wide plains where they would meet their fate, be it good or bad. They would meet it with their heads lifted proudly, their eyes unwavering. They would meet it eye to eye with the sword in hand.

And, looking after them, stood a woman clad in white, condemned to watch and wait, while the fate crept up on her with the whispers of Wormtongue in the shadows in the sleepless hours before dawn.

It was the last time that Éowyn daughter of Éomund saw Théodred, the only heir of the kingdom of Rohan ride to battle beneath the gray clouds of morning sky. She longed to ride with him and feel the strong horse under her and the steel of her sword in her firm grasp. She longed to face the fate, not wait for it to come like a thief. She did not fear death…

To feel the wind

Upon my skin

In the green sea of grass

On a strong steed

With nimble feet

The echoes of hoof-beats

My sword is sharp

The dancing spark

Upon glistening blade

My hand is steady

My spear is ready

But you have told me: “Stay”

* * *

“Brother!” she cried out, and her voice trembled slightly. Éomer’s éored was assembled, waiting for its leader who stood at the door of the Golden Hall, facing his sister.

“Take me with you, I beg you! Take me with you, for I cannot stay idle in these halls any longer!”

“Éowyn, sister!” He took her hands into his. “I know that you can wield the sword as well as any of my men and that your arrows never miss their mark. But it is not your place. I ride for it is my duty to my King, and to the land of Rohan and my place is on the horseback, with my men. You have another duty, and the King needs you. He grows old and, as his niece, your place is at his side. Do you not love him?”

She averted her eyes. “I do.”

Éomer smiled at her, and squeezed her hands reassuringly. “Good. We will ride together, sister. When the war ends and brighter times come…” He did not believe his words and she knew it, but she gave him a slight smile. Smile was on her face, but her heart wept with bitter tears as she watched him to mount his horse and ride with the rising sun reflecting in his helm. Then she returned to the dim hall where the King sat on his throne like a shadow of the former glory, an old man on faltering feet bent under the burden of years.

My sword is sharp

The dancing spark

Upon glistening blade

My hand is steady

My spear is ready

But you have told me: “Stay”

Oh, brother mine

Like bitter wine

Is waiting in these halls

You have the sword

You can ride forth

I have the shrinking walls

Like rose of steel

Do you not feel

The ice upon my heart?

In shrinking cage

Until the age

Will make the cage my part

* * *

“Westu Théoden hál!” Behold the king of Rohan in his glory! He walked in the shadow of poisonous lies, an old man tired of life. Now, he walks in the light again and his fingers are strong on the hilt of his sword. The silver of his beard speaks not of weakness, but of wisdom as he stands, straight and proud, before the carved door of the Golden Hall, looking at his riders.

The golden-haired woman beheld him and a new spark was in her eyes. She felt the sword he held like a surge of power in her own fingers. She faced a new day. A storm was gathering above the plains of Rohan, but there was hope in her eyes and in her ears the clang of swords on shields sounded like music. No longer was she bound to the dim halls. No longer was she bound to support an old man in his weakness. She looked at the assembled host and to the wide plains and her heart flew far at the sight.

No longer could she wait. She knelt before the king. “My place is at your side, my Lord. Where you go, I will follow. Please, allow me to ride with you!”

The King looked at her with kindness in his eyes. “Nay, Éowyn sister-daughter. Your place is here, with our folk. The people trust in the House of Eorl, and you are the daughter of kings. You are fearless and high-hearted and they love you. You will be as lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone.”

She bowed her head and said nothing, but the light in her eyes seemed to diminish as if a cloud had veiled the sun.

 _Then the king sat upon a seat before his doors, and Éowyn knelt before him and received from him a sword and a fair corslet._ _“Farewell sister-daughter!” he said. “Dark is the hour, yet maybe we shall return to the Golden Hall. But in Dunharrow the people may long defend themselves, and if the battle go ill, thither will come all who escape.”_

“ _Speak not so!” she answered. “A year shall I endure for every day that passes until your return.”_

_The king now went down the stair with Gandalf beside him. The others followed. Aragorn looked back as they passed towards the gate. Alone Éowyn stood before the doors of the house at the stair’s head; the sword was set upright before her, and her hands were laid upon the hilt. She was clad now in mail and shone like silver in the sun._

_The trumpets sounded. The horses reared and neighed. Spear clashed on shield. Then the king raised his hand, and with a rush like the sudden onset of a great wind the last host of Rohan rode thundering into the West. Far over the plain Éowyn saw the glitter of their spears, as she stood still, alone before the doors of the silent house._ _1_

My sword is sharp

The dancing spark

Upon glistening blade

My hand is steady

My spear is ready

But you have told me: “Stay”

Shieldmaiden proud

You called me loud

And then bound me to lead

Shield, was your word

But I’m the sword

Laying idle in sheath

Daughter of kings…

Why my heart sinks?

My duty I’ll fulfill

I watch you ride

I do not cry

For I am ice and steel

* * *

_When the light of day was come into the sky but the sun was_ _not yet risen above the high ridges in the East, Aragorn made ready to depart. His company was all mounted, and he was about to leap into the saddle, when the Lady Éowyn came to bid them farewell. She was clad as a Rider and girt with a sword. In her hand she bore a cup, and she set it to her lips and drank a little, wishing them good speed; and then she gave the cup to Aragorn, and he drank, and he said: ‘Farewell, Lady of Rohan! I drink to the fortunes of your House, and of you, and of all your people. Say to your brother: beyond the shadows we may meet again!’_

 _Then it seemed to Gimli and Legolas who were nearby that she_ _wept, and in one so stern and proud that seemed the more grievous. But she said: ‘Aragorn, wilt thou go?’_

‘ _I will,’ he said._

‘ _Then wilt thou not let me ride with this company, as I have_ _asked?’_

‘ _I will not, lady,’ he said. ‘For that I could not grant without leave of the king and of your brother; and they will not return until tomorrow. But I count now every hour, indeed every minute. Farewell!’_

_Then she fell on her knees, saying: ‘I beg thee!’_

‘ _Nay, lady,’ he said, and taking her by the hand he raised her._ _Then he kissed her hand, and sprang into the saddle, and rode away, and did not look back; and only those who knew him well and were near to him saw the pain that he bore._

 _But Éowyn stood still as a figure carven in stone, her hands clenched at her sides, and she watched them until they passed into the shadows under the black Dwimorberg, the Haunted Mountain, in which was the Gate of the Dead. When they were lost to view, she turned, stumbling as one that is blind, and went back to her_ _lodging._ _2_

My sword is sharp

The dancing spark

Upon glistening blade

My hand is steady

My spear is ready

But you have told me: “Stay”

You take the path

Without the light

That none has returned from

And on the east

Like crushing fist

Gathers an evil storm

On paths of dread

You lead to death

The men that follow you

Oh, take me too!

To ride with you

For, like they, I love you

No longer could she stay behind. No duty could hold her back. The one that rode to the Paths of Dead took her heart with him into the shadows. Dark was the bleak Dwimorberg, and even darker were the paths beneath it. There, her heart choked in the darkness, and all the hope was extinguished. She felt the emptiness of her life like a horse that has lost its master in fight and now runs on the battle-field, forgotten.

She drew her sword and raised it, looking at the blade as it glistened in the light of the fires. It was sharp and strong and without adornments, fair in its deadly simplicity. It became a part of her as she clenched her fingers around the hilt and felt the strength surge in her arms. It called for great deeds and glory. But her heart called for death.

She breathed in deeply. Suddenly she was free of the cage. Her fate was not here, in the shadow of Dunharrow. It was there, in the wide fields, in the far land of the Sea Kings. She was free for she had nothing left to lose. There was to be no more waiting or staying behind. She would not wait for the cage to become a habit. She would not watch the walls of her bower closing in around her like a hutch to trammel some wild thing in. She would not wait for the men to return from war to find warm food and beds. And if they did not, if they died in battle and honor, she would not wait to be burned in the house that they needed no more. As daughter of kings, she would ride. She would ride and the clash of steel would be a dirge for her lost heart. She would ride… For death and glory!

_But when they had come almost to the end of the line one looked up glancing keenly at the hobbit. A young man, Merry thought as he returned the glance, less in height and girth than most. He caught the glint of clear grey eyes; and then he shivered, for it came suddenly to him that it was the face of one without hope who goes in search of death._ _3_

My sword is sharp

The dancing spark

Upon glistening blade

My hand is steady

My spear is ready

And today, I won’t stay

The sea of spears

The sun sheds tears

Eorlingas ride to war

To the red day

To glory, fame

In the ancestors’ hall

To end of hope

I will ride forth

To the dark, sunless day

Where my King goes

There I follow

No excuse makes me stay

* * *

1 J. R. R. Tolkien: The Two Towers, Book III, Chapter 6: The King of the Golden Hall

2 J. R. R. Tolkien: The Return of the King, Book V, Chapter 2: The Passing of the Grey Company

3 J. R. R. Tolkien: The Return of the King, Book V, Chapter 3: The Muster of Rohan


	6. Herb-lore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ring is destroyed and the Hobbits are resting by the field of Cormallen, smoking and remembering

It could be a picture from the Shire: four Hobbits sitting under a tree, resting after the heroic deeds at the lunch table. For that’s what they were indeed doing at the moment. Only their garb suggested they are not in Shire. One of them was clad in the livery of Rohan, and another one in the colours of Gondor, and the tree they were sitting under grew near the field of Cormallen.

“Strider’s table is quite fabulous!” said Sam, and it was a compliment not easily given by one who was a great cook himself.

“He is not Strider anymore,” Pippin reminded. “He is Aragorn, or king Elessar now.”

“Which explains the table,” added Merry. “He did not cook it himself, after all.”

Pippin smiled mysteriously. “These Gondorians have some tasty meals, that’s for sure. But still they are missing one thing.”

“Mushrooms?” guessed Sam.

“Well, that too. But I meant something else. Guess what I have here…” he smiled, and took out two pipes, and a bag of pipe-weed, handing them to Frodo and Sam like a squire hands a sword to a knight.

“Oh, bless my hairy feet!” exclaimed Sam. “Where did you get this? I haven’t had a smoke since…” his face darkened a bit. “Since…”

“It’s a long time…” Frodo agreed, helping Sam so he didn’t have to think back through all the darkness behind to get to the point when they had their last smoke. He accepted the pipe from Pippin, and lit it with a delighted expression.

Pippin and Sam did likewise, but Merry hesitated. He sighed when he finally lit his pipe, and closed his eyes with the first breath of smoke. There were tears in them, but he smiled in the same time just a little.

Pippin put a hand on his shoulder.

“What’s the matter, Merry?” asked Frodo gently. “Is something wrong?”

Merry opened his eyes and smiled sadly. “I’m thinking of Théoden.”

“The king of Rohan? Legolas told me about him when I asked what you have been all doing,” said Frodo. “He said you two were quite close…”

Merry nodded, looking at the smoke from his pipe. Apparently it was not easy for him to talk about it. “He died…” he said quietly. “His horse was shot under him, and crushed him in his fall. I was there. With his last words, he apologized to me… for… for not being able to sit with me in Meduseld, and listen to the herb-lore, like he promised. That was the first thing I started talking about when I met him, you see… We were smoking from this very stash – from Saruman’s supplies, to answer your question, Sam – and he wondered about it. So I started babbling about Old Toby Hornblower and Longbottom in Southfarthing, and so on. There was really no time for that, but he was very polite, and said he wished we could sit in his golden hall, and talk about the pipeweed and deeds of our people…”

“He was a fine old fellow,” Pippin nodded wistfully.

“He was like a father to me…” said Merry. “Just for a little while. _Live now in blessedness_ ; he said when he was dying, _and when you sit in peace with your pipe, think of me_!” He shook his head sadly. “I did not want to smoke anymore. I did not want to remember it. His death, I mean. But Strider… he said…” his voice broke.

Instead, Pippin spoke. “ _Smoke then, and think of him_ , he said”, he whispered gently, repeating Aragorn’s words. _“For he was a gentle heart and a great king and kept his oaths; and he rose out of the shadows to a last fair morning. Though your service to him was brief, it should be a memory glad and honourable to the end of your days.”_

Merry gulped, and nodded thankfully. “Farewell, Théoden King…” he whispered, and closed his eyes again, as he solemnly drew the smoke from his pipe, almost as if it would be some ceremony.

Frodo was quiet for a moment, giving Merry some time to deal with the memories. “He indeed must have been a great man…” he sighed then. “I regret I could not meet him myself. Would you tell me more about him, please? Only if it doesn’t bring you pain, though…”

Merry nodded. “It does. But I like to remember him nevertheless,” he said quietly. “The time when I knew him seems so short now. As I told you, I first met him in Isengard, after Treebeard and his Ents seized the place…”

So Merry told Frodo about all his travels from Isengard to Pelennor, and his short friendship with the king of Rohan, not omitting anything. It felt good to talk about it with friends. It felt as if the old king was sitting with them under the tree, politely listening and nodding to his talk. There was peace, and he was sitting with his pipe… and with fondness, he was thinking of Théoden.


	7. Namárië, or the Hues of White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The White Lady of the Golden Wood, Galadriel, Artanis, Nerwen. She is the last of the Noldor Exiles in Middle-earth, the most powerful of the Elves upon the Mortal Shores, but behind the picture of power and wisdom, there is a woman with feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is written between the lines of the poem Namárië in Quenya, which is sung by Galadriel in the 2nd book of the Fellowship of the Ring.

_Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,_

_Ah!_ _like_ _gold_ _fall_ _the_ _leaves_ _in_ _the_ _wind._ For a moment they shimmer, carried on the wings of breeze, and then they are gone. Gone like a memory. But I remember. Once, two trees stood in the noon of the world. Ah, how proud and magnificent they stood, and the wind in their branches played thousands of songs. How gently the silver flowers of Telperion shone, and filled the night with a soft, caressing glow. How glorious shone the golden fruits of Laurelin, lighting the day with a rich and living light. Now they are gone: the leaves dry, the branches bare. Just like now, the wind took the dead leaves, and carried them gently, lay them reverently on the grass. Almost like gems they looked, like a golden and silver carpet strewn upon the ground. Dying. Dead. No leaf can survive separated from the tree. No leaf can return to the branch once it fell.

_yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!_

_L_ _ong_ _years_ _numberless_ _as_ _the_ _wings_ _of_ _trees_ passed since then, and again I watch the trees wither, their leaves falling, falling to the ground, in the stream, the wind, the water carrying them away. They are gold, like the leaves of Laurelin once were. But they are dying - a fading beauty. Arda is marred, and beauty withers and dies. What was once Laurelindórenan, now is just Lórien. The singing gold of the valley fell down with the leaves, the songs silenced. Just Dreamflower remained, nothing more. A dream that will pass with the dawn of a new age.

_Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier_

_The_ _long_ _years_ _have_ _passed_ _like_ _swift_ _draughts_ _…_ Gone are those blissful years under the light of Trees. Gone are the days when the lords of Noldor founded their hidden cities and mighty kingdoms. The lands now lay under the Sea, forgotten, except for songs. No more do the proud helmets and sharp spears of the army of Firstborn reflect the rays of a young Sun. Gone is the brave Fingolfin, gone like a bright star quenched by heavy darkness. Gone is Finrod, my brother, the friend of Men, and the song of his harp faded from these shores. Gone is the genius of Fëanor, devoured by his own flame, and his proud sons, weighted by a terrible oath, have fallen under the weight of its words.

_mi oromardi lissë-miruvóreva_

… _of_ _the_ _sweet_ _mead_ _in_ _lofty_ _halls._ We lived those years like gulps of wine. Willingly we went into exile, our heads proudly lifted. Even the betrayal and the sharp ice of Helcaraxë could not stop us. Fire was in our hearts, and I was Artanis, young and strong and proud. I was not content to live in a golden cage. I wanted a realm of my own, a land that I could rule and shape to my own desire. It was a heady wine, dark-red like blood. Blood and tears fell upon the soil of Middle-earth in a long war against darkness. We drank the years, we fought the battles, and the wine was rich and the blood was hot.

_Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar_

_B_ _eyond_ _the_ _West,_ _beneath_ _the_ _blue_ _vaults_ _of_ _Varda_ – there it began. It was before the jewels, before the Oath, in those years fresh like budding flowers when it seemed that there is no evil in the world. How young I was, and how proud! My hair was the most beautiful among the Noldor, they said. So gold, as if the light of Laurelin would get trapped in their living cascades. My beauty, my treasure, my pride. My uncle asked me for one strand. Just one strand of hair, to weave it into the most intricate jewels. I refused. But I know that in that moment, an idea was born in his mind. Light trapped in my hair – flattery of the bards! But he made those words true. He took the living light of the Trees, and trapped it, like a bird in a cage, in three jewels. The Silmarils…

_nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni_

_wherein_ _the_ _stars_ _tremble_ _…_ a pure, white light, older than Trees. There, among the stars, set to a heavenly path, sails the last Silmaril now, out of the reach of any oaths. Those times became just old tales, and not many remember them. The stars circle their heavenly paths, unchanging, while the ages of the world pass by. Years? Years are just ripples in the stream, but the power of the river is immeasurable. The river of time can change its shores, sink entire lands. Year by year, ripple by ripple, trees grow and leaves fall. Year by year, ripple by ripple, young hearts find wisdom…

_ómaryo airetári-lírinen._

_in_ _the_ _song_ _of_ _her_ _voice,_ _holy_ _and_ _queenly._ The years pass, and Varda's stars dance in the rhythm of her song. But I wanted to sing my own songs. About the wind, about the leaves. I wanted my own land, where I could be the queen. In Middle-earth, my wish was granted. O Lórien, child of my song! I sang about trees, golden and silver, and in my land, the song came true. O Lórien! How little did I know back in those days in Valinor about the rulership! The land does not belong to me, but I belong to it. Joy and sorrow mixed, that is the rulership, and I am not a queen but a guardian – the Lady of Light shielding her land against the darkness of this world, making it a safe place, a memory of the beauty that was once. Bitter and sweet is that wine, and I am drinking the last drops from the cup. The age of Elves upon these shores is coming to the end…

_Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?_

_Who_ _now_ _shall_ _refill_ _the_ _cup_ _for_ _me?_ We lived those years like gulps of wine, and my cup is almost empty now. All the great deeds and glorious kingdoms I imagined when I set foot on the shores of Middle-earth for the first time are now past: the deeds done, the kingdoms gone. Even Lórien will lose its magic soon. The autumn comes. Dying leaves and reaping fruits – it is time to harvest what we have sown.

Not with wine will my cup be refilled – blood-red and bitter-sweet, heady with the passion of youth. From the hands of one man, I will accept a cup of clear water – wisdom and caring love, calm and quiet. Celeborn, my Silver Lord, you stood at my side for all the time, and your support gave me strength when the darkness was strongest. I do not desire realms and power anymore. Just give me your hand, and let us walk barefoot in the sand of Aman shores.

_An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo_

_For_ _now_ _the_ _Kindler,_ _Varda,_ _the_ _Queen_ _of_ _the_ _stars,_ has welcomed most of my kin back. I am the last one – the last from the Exiles who remains upon the Mortal shores. By death or by ship, they all returned home – and death was the route taken more often by those dear to me. Oh tell me Finrod, brother mine, did lord Námo already release you from his halls? From the lords of Noldor, you were the most kind and noble, the hewer of caves and friend of men. For a Mortal, you have suffered and died: a death most horrible, far from light, far from hope. Only darkness and pain for you faithfulness…

_ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë,_

_from_ _Mount_ _Everwhite_ _has_ _uplifted_ _her_ _hands_ _like_ _clouds_ _-_ to take your fëa home, and my mind was veiled in clouds much darker, in despair. So unfair it seemed to me that Beren lived, when the most noble elven lord, my brother, died. So senseless was his death, I though.

I could not be mistaken more.

For from the line of Beren, Elwing was born, and her sons Elrond and Elros. And while my own daughter found her happiness with Elrond Peredhil, Elros chose a different fate, and the kingdoms of Middle-earth were shaped by the lines of his descendants. The last from that line sought shelter in my realm once, weary both in body and spirit. Only then I truly understood the price of Finrod's sacrifice, and the love of Beren and Lúthien. For I saw the greatness in this mortal, and the love of my granddaughter for him. I looked into his eyes, and I saw something that reminded me on Finrod. The same selfless nobility… In the heart of my realm, upon Cerin Amroth, I blessed their love. This is what you died for, brother, and I will honour your sacrifice, even if I am losing my granddaughter for it.

Now you already walk in Valinor with Amarië, I hope, and know no more suffering. But I remain in Middle-earth,

_ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë;_

_and_ _all_ _paths_ _are_ _drowned_ _deep_ _in_ _shadow._ First it was the shadow of our Doom that obscured them, the fate of the Exiles who went against the will of Valar. But later, Morgoth has been defeated, and the Ban lifted. Yet I refused to return. Another shadow obscured the path for me. My own pride.

I, the child of king Arafinwë, born in Aman under the light of Trees, should come back, begging for forgiveness? Should I be content with staying in Eldamar, within the sight of the shores of Aman? No, I could not. For I was Galadriel, the Lady of Light – radiant, shining white.

_ar sindanóriello caita mornië_

_and_ _out_ _of_ _a_ _grey_ _country_ _darkness_ _lies._ All evil was not defeated with Morgoth, and light was still needed in Middle-earth. Mine, and that of my ring. I met Sauron for the first time when he came to Eregion as Annatar, offering his skills to Celebrimbor. I did not trust him then – and rightly so, for he betrayed the smiths of Eregion, creating the Ring of Power and binding all rings to his will. Only three were hidden from him, and one of them Nenya, the star upon my finger. The power of Nenya helped me to protected my land, keeping it untouched by years.

Darkness all around: threatening, oppressive darkness, and my land an island of light. Ever it was in my thoughts – the menace of Dol Guldur, just across the river, and the menace of the Eye, preparing for war, and searching for the lost Ring. That Ring, such a little piece of jewellery, yet changing so many fates. Often I wondered what would happen if I got it. Oh, all the power I ever longed for would be mine! The seas and lands would lie at my feet, and I would be their Queen, terrible and beautiful as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair! The Lady of Light… No, the Queen of Light! Dazzling, blinding, radiant white!

But…

_i falmalinnar imbë met, ar hísië_

_on_ _the_ _foaming_ _waves_ _between_ _us,_ the shade of eternal separation would fall. No, rather than a Queen of Middle-earth, I would be a simple elven woman, a daughter, a mother, a wife. My pride has led me far, but no more will it make my decisions. I have walked a long way in Middle earth. It led through pain and sorrows, but also love, through trials and suffering, but also joy. And at the end, it led to myself. No, I have passed the last trial laid before me, the last and biggest temptation of Galadriel. I refused the Ring of Power. I will diminish and pass to the West – but I will stay myself. Galadriel, the Lady of Light: simple, humble, pure white.

_untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë._

_and_ _mist_ _covers_ _the_ _jewels_ _of_ _Calacirya_ _for_ _ever._ Jewels, rings… It must be something in the nature of us, Noldor, just like the pride. With jewels it began – with my uncle's request for one strand of my hair. Now, three Ages of the world later, the request was repeated – by a dwarf! He did not know he is asking for a treasure I refused to the greatest of the Noldor. I bade him to choose a gift, and so he named it, yet so different from Fëanor's was his request. For he named the desire of his heart humbly, as a compliment to me, but did not ask for it. The sincere admiration of a dwarf meant more to me than all flattery of poets in my youth in Aman. A long way I have walked since then… I didn't give him one strand. I gave him three.

_Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!_

_Now_ _lost,_ _lost_ _to_ _those_ _from_ _the_ _East_ _is_ _Valimar!_ Just a few ships remain upon these shores, white swan-ships leaving the Grey Havens. The One Ring is no more, and the Three have lost their power. Grey are the new mornings, and the light is dimmed. To Lórien, winter will come, death and decay of all mortal things. For three Ages of the world I have dwelled upon the hither shore, mighty and tall like an old mallorn with deep roots. I was a ruler in my own realm, and brought a memory of the Undying lands to life in Middle-earth. But now I am tired and long for home. The time of the Elves is over, and the ships are leaving to the West. Is there a ship for me as well? Is there one for the White Lady of the Noldor, not a queen, but a humble traveller seeking a lost home?

_Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar!_

_Farewell!_ _Maybe_ _thou_ _shalt_ _find_ _Valimar!_ There is a ship for me. A ship for all Ringbearers… I'm glad Frodo has a place here. I knew that he would find no peace upon these shores, even if he survived the Quest. I learnt that greatness is not always in wisdom and power. I am honoured to sail at his side.

Elrond is here, too. He did not speak much for the entire journey, but I know what burden lies on his heart. He is leaving Arwen behind, knowing he will never see her again. It burdens my heart as well, but I knew she found her happiness. Sometimes, however, I see Elrond looking to the West, and a slight smile is on his lips. I know he thinks of Celebrían in those moments. A parting and a hope for reuniting – that is this journey for both of us, and I am counting the days that remain, yet I fear the arrival. I will see my daughter again, and only then my worry for her will cease – I need to see with my own eyes that she found healing in the Blessed Realm, although I know in my heart she did, and that it will be complete when she embraces Elrond again.

It is another reuniting I fear. Will my father await me when the white ship arrives? Will he forgive me my pride? I returned, having achieved all I longed for, and yet I return humbly, for his forgiveness now means more than any kingdoms to me. And so, I will do what I have never done before, and never imagined I will ever do in my youth: I will ask for it…

_Nai elyë hiruva!_

_Maybe_ _even_ _thou_ _shalt_ _find_ _it!_ Farewell, Celeborn, my Silver Lord! Take care of our land, of those who remain. I wish you would leave with me, but even dimmed, the woods of Lórien grow still, and a few of our people stay. While the last of them stays, so will you, for you are the Lord of the Golden Wood when the Lady cannot remain. My time in Middle-earth is over, and my own words are coming true for me _._ _If_ _thou_ _hearest_ _the_ _cry_ _of_ _the_ _gull_ _on_ _the_ _shore,_ _thy_ _heart_ _shall_ _then_ _rest_ _in_ _the_ _forest_ _no_ _more._ Too long have I resisted the calling of the gulls, but now not even our love can give me the strength to resist. Not without the power of Nenya, and so I sail, and you stay. I will wait for you, my lord. I will watch for every coming ship, for I know that one of them will carry you to me. Then we will walk barefoot in the soft sand of Aman together, no more a Lord and Lady, but only husband and wife. The Sea will sing its eternal song, and wash out footsteps from the white sand, just like the memory of us will fade in Middle-earth, and become a tale and legend, a forgotten song fading in the twilight. So let it be. The time of Elves in Middle-earth is over, but it's enough that we have each other.

I will wait for you!

_Namárië!_


End file.
